Bloodstream
by Lady Storm
Summary: Records indicate the legendary Ccrow, Queen of Winter, once Commander of the Pact, was once an urchin on the streets of the Reach...


The following are the records of the human female necromancer Ccrow, Master Reaper, Grenth's Chosen, Queen of Winter, Commander and Marshall of the Pact, defeater of Mordremoth and Zhaitan.

Date of birth: 1304 AE. Birthplace: unknown. Parents: deceased by centaur raid. Siblings: one twin sister, missing. Date of death: N/A. Believe to have ascended to godhood in 1345 AE.

Rose to prominence during the centaur attacks on Shaemoor in 1325 AE. Allied to the human Queen Jennah and the Durmand Priory, then ascended in rank to Commander of the Pact after the defeat of Zhaitain in the same year.

Current location unknown.

* * *

1317 AE:

None could deny that Divinity's Reach was a breathtaking testament to the triumphs of humanity. The walled city was circular and tall, with multiple levels connected by high sloping roads. These six were each dedicated to a god, and divided the city into six districts. The upper center of the city, where the Queen's Palace overlooked its domain, connected them all. The Reach was venerated for its glorious white towers, adorned with banners of every ethnicity and outpost, as well as its beautiful architecture and immense size.

And like all major cities, crime was rampant.

The Lower Commons district was the hub of criminal activity. Shiny and upstanding by day, the district of the poorest showed its grime when the sun went down. Any treasure worth having there was long removed, so the Lower Commons connected to the other five where loot could be had in secretive ways; a mere slope to the Upper Commons or a rooftop pathway to the Ascalonian center. All of the Reach could be accessed from the lower commons - it was perhaps the truest center of the city.

It was Ccrow's home.

Orphans and beggars were numerous. The Reach provided orphanages, housing, food kitchens, well-intentioned teachers, and all it could: but overcrowding made even the generous funding program seem lacking. So when Ccrow was eleven, she followed Damian on one of his new nightly excursions he'd been telling her about. He'd smiled wide and offered her a whole, fresh loaf of spiced bread. It was the best thing she'd eaten in weeks. Her stomach did the rest of the convincing.

She joined the Friends of Melandru. Their hideout was behind a false wall in a decrepit temple to the goddess, where there were pews and tables and a shoddy statue of the deity overlooking the illegal activities. Ccrow felt no warmth from Melandru, but her fellow gang members were indeed her friends. They committed petty theft and took commission for briberies or other small time crime, but they were good children. Their leader Joorr, the oldest, was no more than seventeen and meant only to feed and take care of their own, as did other gangs in the district.

When Ccrow was thirteen, a theft went awry.

"They said they'd be here by now!" Damian hissed at her side. They were hunched beneath a sycamore in a small garden, watching the second floor windows to a guarded house. Per the mission agreements, someone was meant to appear and lure the guards away, just momentarily, enough for the children to climb up and slip through.

It had been over a half hour, and Ccrow's legs were cramped from kneeling under cover. Damian complained enough for the both of them, so she kept quiet.

"I'll gut that rat," he muttered, meaning the informant Gann who'd assured them just that morning that all would go as planned. Ccrow sighed and shoved her hair out of her eyes. She was sure that any moment now, the guard would turn away and leave. Any moment at all. They just need to be –

"What's he doing?" Damian squinted through the leaves. Gann was talking to the guards, trying to stay out of sight, but looking visibly agitated. One laughed and waved Gann off, so he pointed toward Ccrow and Damian angrily.

"I'm telling you, they're in there!"

"Rat bastard!" Damian cursed and grabbed Ccrow's arm. Gann was sprinting toward them. Her legs were wobbly but they tore through the bushes, cutting off the surprised guards and ducking into the nearest alley. The guards' armor and age weighed them down so Ccrow and Damian were able to stay ahead.

But Gann was younger and unencumbered; it was he they feared. Wordlessly Ccrow and Damian split up and took two different routes, taking false turns and leading everyone far from the actual hideout. This was because while no gang knew the location of another gang's base, they were all undoubtedly in the Lower Commons. Though the shouting behind them grew fainter, Ccrow and Damian both knew they were in for a night of hiding in a different district before it was safe to return. Thankfully they had planned for situations like these.

Buildings, roads, merchants, and city folk blurred as Ccrow flew by, dodging into side streets or climbing up a wall. The shouting behind her diminished and she guessed that Gann had chosen to pursue Damian instead. A life in motion meant she was able to go quite far before being winded, and after forty-five minutes of running she finally felt that she'd won the chase. Gasping for breath, she found a quiet neighborhood to hide in.

The character of the residences gave her the impression of being in the Western Commons. A slightly more religious community, assumed from the many offerings littering the doorways. This worked to her advantage very well.

Ccrow waited until the sweat cooled and the flush of exercise retreated, patting down her wild black hair. She wore a belted green dress that could be interpreted to be in Melandru's colors, and she knew the traits of the goddess by heart; schoolchildren learned about the six gods from an early age. A home nearby had a slightly ajar door so Ccrow decided to start there. If they were home she planned on knocking and being invited in to discuss the miracles of Melandru the Mother of Earth and Nature, to let time pass and hopefully receive a meal. If not, then at least a hiding place. Whatever it took to keep her off the street for the time being.

She groomed herself, cleared her throat and knocked. There was no answer even when she called out, the slight gap in the doorway indicated that no fires were lit inside. Cautiously, she pushed the door open.

The abode was empty. It was furnished but dusty; the offerings outside were similarly withered and stale upon closer inspection. Perfect.

Ccrow tiptoed in and gently pushed the door closed behind her. In the faint light from the waning day filtering through the windows, she saw a few rooms further in. Food was always her first priority, then gold. She was looking for the hearth then perhaps a coin chest.

But the kitchen was bereft; an empty pot hung askew above a cold fireplace and any herbs drying on the walls were too dry to be edible. There were no larders or storage for anything to eat, as obviously no one had lived here in some time. Sighing, Ccrow turned her attention to finding a chest of coins, but she feared she'd have similar luck.

Two rooms she searched first, but it was in the third that she saw the ghost.

Ccrow was not scared. She'd been seeing the souls of the dead since she could remember. Usually they left her alone, very rarely interfering in any way. This one was almost shapeless, so long dead that the form had been forgotten. It still glowed a faint teal, waiting for Ccrow next to a desk and chair. From its light she saw a book waiting on the table. When she approached the spirit vanished. Ccrow whispered a thank you, confused about the otherworldly intervention, but curious.

Ccrow could read, of course. What little coin she earned for herself and not for the gang was spent on extra food, slightly warmer clothes, and once those needs were met she turned to scrolls. (The city was large and exciting, but few areas were accessible to a street rat just looking for some fun. Reading alleviated the boredom.) So needless to say that when she saw the thick leather binding, she was interested. An actual book was hard to come by; scrolls were cheap and more common. A book could fetch a pretty price regardless of the topic.

Nothing of value in this whole house… so why leave a book? Why had she been led here?

A clang outside, voices drifting in – Ccrow jumped and snatched the book, fleeing the room and hiding in a dark nook. The voices came closer. There was a window in one of the bedrooms – she ran for it and pried it open desperately, then jumped out, the book clutched to her chest.

Darkness cloaked the sky above the Reach; fires and lanterns were being lit all across the city. But where there was light there would be people. It took Ccrow two hours on foot, in further darkness, to make her way to the Ascalonian District where she knew lush gardens would provide her cover and relative comfort.

She spent the night there, falling asleep easily due to exhaustion under a young willow tree. In the pale light of morning, she awoke stiff, cold and hungry – but all that was forgotten as she finally read the cover of her book. Ccrow sat up, pulling leaves from her hair.

"Callings of the Prince of Ice and Snow".

A prickle ran down her spine. This godly title was new to her. She opened it with trepidation. Inside she found what could be a book of shadows - pages of glyphs and spells, potions and depictions. The illustrations were in faded green ink but still visible. Thankfully most of the words were in the common tongue and she tried to make sense of what they had to say.

Ccrow mouthed along silently, squinting. "Shed the gilded trappings and accept the truth – see the way as it is by casting off the shackles of fear. Death is a means, not an end. The Shroud is clarity, the Reaper is the agent of mercy.

Behold Grenth, the Prince of Ice and Snow, the defeater of Dhuum – the Voice in the Void. Through his power the realm of the sleeping will awaken at your call."

She looked further. Pages of recipes and chants. A drawing of a summoning circle, with a hideous creature pulling itself from its center. More fascinating descriptions of rituals and monsters. An illustrated history of the emergence of the Dark One.

So it was that in the dewy morning, Ccrow discovered to works of necromancy.

* * *

In the afternoon Ccrow finally returned to the Friends. Damian was ecstatic at her return, having feared the worst.

"Rat Bastard," he spat. "It was all a trap from the beginning. The High Road Bandits were trying to take us out of the game."

Every member of the Friends of Melandru were gathered around statue. Joorr the leader sat facing them all – a ragtag group of orphans or runaways from every ethnicity and corner of Divinity's Reach.

Joorr was shrewd and lean and knew how to lead his small family. Ccrow respected him though she had little else to say about the young man. Amidst the whispering he held up a hand to quiet them and start their meeting. A hush fell.

"The High Roads are trying to flush us out. The upper districts are tightening security." He nodded at a scrawny Orrian child, disowned and disrespected for his heritage, who grew smart at spying. "Torem reports that they introduced a new guard schedule so they never stand longer than six minutes. It's going to get tough out there, so the High Roads figured they'd wipe the competition for whatever slimmer pickings we'll be able to get.

"We need to go to war, my Friends. We're smaller and weaker than they are, so we have to strike first."

Ccrow shared a worried glance with Damian. They'd been friends since they were babes, she knew he felt the same way she did.

"What can we do?" pleased Damian. "Joorr, how can we possibly beat them?"

Their leader smiled. "Torem, tell everyone what you found."

Torem started to speak in his quiet, shaky voice. "The High Roads are doing this to several other gangs. In three days they're going to ambush the Crimsons, and it's a large op. Their hideout, if we can find it, will be practically empty."

Joorr was nodding. "That's when we go in and steal whatever they've got, and bleed them dry." He looked around at the expectant faces. "So Friends, this is what we do. We've got three days to track them to their hideout. Lay low, learn what we can, and absolutely do not engage. They might be suspicious of a counter attack since their plan failed. But don't worry – we'll get them good."

There was cheering and clapping. Ccrow felt a prickle of apprehension again and looked at her family. Young and scraping by. The High Road Bandits had older and crueler members.

Damian nudged her with his elbow and smiled his stupid wide smile. Ccrow felt better.

They found the High Road Bandit's hideout on the second day. Torem tracked them to a large inn on a main street in the Salma District, squatting on the upper floors. It was due to luck that a new member of theirs had been careless, letting the Friends of Melandru see his trail. As for the inn, the owner was an older grouchy man who let the High Roads sneak in through the windows of the third floor. The inn itself sat in a friendly and open plaza which certainly didn't look like gang turf. Hiding in plain sight – no wonder they'd avoided detection before.

It was now the third day, and their counter operation was imminent.

The Friends of Melandru were paired and assigned to a role. Damian was always with Ccrow – he spoke for her, and knew her better than anyone. Together they were to lure out any High Roads still in the building by causing a commotion on the first floor, keeping the innkeep busy and maybe drawing out some stragglers. This left the way open for Torem and the sneakier kids to make off with what they could find. However distracting the innkeep was what Ccrow was scared of. If he was hiding a gang, he might be wise to the Friends' ways.

She told Damian of this and he agreed, but all they needed were a few minutes.

"It's starting," Damian breathed. They peeked down at the inn front from their perch, and saw a few last figures darting from the rooftops. Across the street in a second floor window, Joorr waved them to start.

Ccrow could tell Damian was more excited than scared. She gripped his arm before he scampered to the ground floor.

"Be careful," she pleaded. "I don't like this."

She spoke so rarely that when she did, he listened. Damian nodded and together they worked their way down.

It was mid-morning and the plaza was fairly busy. On the count of three they burst from their hiding spot and ran toward the inn. They'd practiced the show they now put on:

"I WANT IT BACK!" Damian whined. He was Ccrow's age, but could be as annoying as a five year old when he wanted to. This worked in his favor when pretending to be a pesky brother.

Ccrow jogged in pursuit. "Come back!" She yelled, darting past passersby. "I told you it's not in there!"

But Damian cried louder and kept running from her. "It IS! I want it back!"

The crowd parted to let the screaming children through with amusement and raised eyebrows. They burst into the inn and Ccrow didn't have to pretend to blush – everyone turned to see which impudent child was screaming their head off. "I want it baaaack!"

At the bar a large man glowered at them, stilling his motions from wiping a glass.

Ccrow begged Damian to hush. "We'll look for it, alright? Please don't yell, please."

The owner approached, and the two cowered in the shadow of his large frame. Ccrow acted the protective and worried sister. "Very sorry. He lost a wood sword here, says a boy took it from him and ran inside." She gulped. "It- It's homemade sir. Whittled it himself. It'd mean a lot if-"

"Get out," said the owner. Damian started crying.

"He's simple, sir. Please, if we could look for it – the boy-"

"No one's taken your damn toy. Get your fool of a brother out of here."

The audience had stalled to listen, and a table nearby booed. Yelled a man, "Go on, sir, let the boy have his sword."

Other patrons agreed. Some started striking their goblets against the table.

Ccrow's strained ears heard thumping upstairs and hoped the owner wasn't concerned. She trembled slightly. "Did you not see a young boy run in here? To one of your rooms upstairs, maybe? We'll be gone soon as we find it."

The sympathetic crowd swayed the innkeep. "Ain't no children renting my rooms up there. You'c'n go have a look yourself." He gave them both a furious glare. "Don't do nothing funny up there. I won't be happy if I have to come lookin'."

"Thank you sir!" She nodded and clapped, and some of the patrons shouted their encouragement. Taking care to make a lot of noise, Ccrow led a still-wailing Damian to the stairs, hoping to lure out any nervous High Road Bandits that remained. With luck there'd be none, and only the Friends would be up there, cleaning out the place.

They clambered upstairs and did not meet anyone. On the third floor they saw Joorr who flashed them a thumbs up and sent them back down, where they knocked on every door and asked loudly for a wooden sword. After a few minutes of searching they trudged downstairs in planned defeat.

Ccrow's heart was pounding as they finally left the inn, glad to finally be in the clear. They had made it ten steps from the place, about to congratulate each other,when a shout made them turn.

"THIEVES! THIEVES!" A boy screamed from the entrance, pointing at them. Ccrow didn't know where he came from, but she knew he was a High Road.

"Crap! Run!" Damian yelled, and they broke into a sprint, but mere seconds later a loud shot rang through the air and Damian stumbled.

Ccrow screamed as he pitched forward. The crowd started to panic. Behind them, the boy was being accosted by guards, disarming his pistol. The noise blurred in Ccrow's ears as she dropped to Damian's side, staring at the blood seeping from his back.

"C-" he sputtered. "Ccrow. It hurts."

Hands pulled them both up and apart. Ccrow fought, but Joorr forced her back. Vaguely she saw other members of the gang appearing and moving around them.

There was motion. Someone was yelling – it snapped Ccrow back to, and she realized they were back in the hideout. A table had been cleared and fabric had been bunched into makeshift bedding. Damian lay on his stomach, shivering. A fifteen year old was pressing cloth onto the wound, looking pale and sweating. Damian looked worse.

Ccrow was gripping his hand. "Damian, Damian. Stay with me. Joorr's finding you a doctor. You'll be okay."

He moaned.

They gently poured a potion down his throat for the pain but it did not help the condition. An hour passed, then an hour more. One by one the gang drifted to their bedding, not for lack of sympathy but for ignorance and reprieve. Few words, if any, were exchanged while Damian lay dying.

After an eternity the false wall was pushed open and Joorr emerged. A Sylvari female followed. Ccrow was the only one awake, clutching Damian's hand still. She moved aside to let the healer begin her work, who tutted as she cleaned his wound.

It didn't take long for the Sylvari to regretfully shake her head at them. "He's been in shock for hours. He doesn't have long now."

The reality sank in and horror washed over her, but she knew what to do. Darting to her sleeping corner, she pulled the book of the Prince from her bed and fled the hideout running into the night with all the speed she had.

Damian had befriended her immediately; she didn't remember not having him by her side. When her own family had left her, her sister abducted and long gone, Damian had been her family. He'd provided for both of them and laughed for the both of them. She could picture his chestnut hair and wide smile as they scampered from a merchant's stall after stealing apples, hear his ever-loud voice as he yelled excitedly about one thing or the other. He'd been there for her always. He could jump from the tallest trees like he was immortal. Surely he couldn't die from a silly – blasted – damned bullet!

Tears blurred her vision as she ran, panting, to the Road of Grenth. At it's end, where the road met the city's outer wall, a statue of the fearsome god awaited her approach. Before now she'd done her best to avoid the statue, because a thick throng of souls always wavered around the place. She didn't like the way they quivered and glitched, floating toward her if she got too close. This time she didn't care.

"Please!" She fell to her knees before the magnificent statue, a stone image of the Dark One posing triumphantly among the wailing dead that swirled about him. Instead of a face he bore the elongated skull of an animal she did not recognize, adorned with a long hood. "Grenth, I call upon your power!"

The distant din of the city was her only response. Ccrow wiped her tears with her arm and opened the book, urgently looking for anything promising. Finally she found a page that allowed "Communication with the Sleeping Realm".

It required only the recantation of words and a spilling of blood. Ccrow unsheathed a small dagger from her belt and sliced her palm with a yelp, reading the words aloud. Though they were not in the common tongue and she stumbled over the pronunciation, she didn't stop until the final word left her lips.

In the distance a chorus of faint yells and shouts grew, louder and louder until Ccrow turned to look at the city below. There was clanging of weapons, the smell of gunsmoke, and worse: plumes of smoke and fire everywhere. The Reach was burning. The screams grew, coming from all over the city, a cacophony of anguish! Ccrow jumped to her feet in panic, turning back to the statue to see it was no longer a figure of stone.

Grenth stood before her amidst wisps of agonized souls, his terrifying form living and breathing before her. The fury and power emanating from him was immense; Ccrow faltered at the sight of him, unable to speak. Learning about deities was one thing; beholding one was incomparable.

The Dark One raised a clawed hand. His voice boomed inside her mind, and it sounded like screams of the dying eternal. "YOU PLEAD TO ME, SMALL ONE?"

Ccrow's knees wavered, but she shakily raised her own bleeding palm to him. She found her voice and it grew stronger as she remembered Damian's plight. "I do, my Lord, I beseech you! My only friend in this world will soon be in yours. Please do not take him from me this night, and in return I will devote myself to you for all my days."

The God of Death before her descended from his pedestal. As he approached she felt the bitterly cold winds of the sleeping realm bite her skin, and the screams grew louder and more discordant. Grenth tilted her chin up with a gloved but clawed hand. She could not feel his touch for her chin was numbed entirely. Gazing upon him this close made her feel faint.

Ccrow thought herself brave, but she was only thirteen. She trembled.

His voice filled her mind. "IT IS BY DESIGN THAT YOU COME TO ME, MY BLACK BIRD. YOU MAY KEEP THE BOY. AS RANSOM FOR HIS SOUL I REQUIRE YOUR ALLEGIANCE."

Never, for the rest of her life, would she forget those words. Ccrow gulped and sank to a knee, bowing her head. "I am yours."

"I EXPECT MUCH OF YOU, BLACK BIRD."

The screams stopped abruptly and when she lifted her head again, Grenth was a statue once more, though she felt his presence about her still. All was as it had been except for her bleeding palm, which was now smooth and undamaged. The blood around the ghost cut was dried and frozen to her skin. She felt new, but not better.

Shakily she rose and bowed low to the statue. "My lord, thank you," she whispered with a cracked voice.

With her heart in her throat she made her way back to Damian's side. Ccrow found him confused and feverish, but alive.

She closed her eyes, Damian's palm clasped in her hands, touching it to her forehead.

"Thank you."

* * *

1325 AE:

Years passed. Ccrow turned twenty-one, and her features blossomed. Ink black hair was always falling into her caramel-colored eyes much to her incessant irritation. Boys found this endearing. Ccrow found boys unpleasant. She preferred the company of Damian and her necromantic rituals.

"It's just weird, is all," Damian commented, watching her prepare her altar. New candles and a pristine sparrow skeleton which had taken a pretty penny to acquire. "I thought you'd outgrow this by now."

Ccrow replied the same way she always did when he brought it up. "When you lay bleeding, I prayed to the gods for help, and Grenth answered."

Damian rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Don't think I'm not grateful."

She swept a fresh coat of blood on the glyphs on the floor. "I'm the one who asked for a favor, not you. You don't owe him any longer."

"But you're so-" Damian spoke with his hands to search for the words. "So… into this death and dying business now. Doesn't it scare you?"

Offering him a rare smile, Ccrow shook her head. "I was meant for this, Damian. I've always been able to see the dead, and it makes sense now. You know it. Grenth can show me the way to further my skills."

Damian huffed. She gently pushed him. "Don't be jealous."

He denied it but Ccrow did sense a displeasure toward her new profession. Well, new at the time – she was now an adept necromancer. She couldn't summon anything yet, but with her dagger she could draw out health. And her ability to see and hear the dead was far improved, to the point where she could see and hear the souls around her at will. It was speaking to them which was difficult; she was still working on that. Anyhow, she didn't let Damian's misgivings daunt her. Ccrow was interested in discovering what she could do. She was meant for this; it was in her blood.

Her friend got up with her when she was done praying to Grenth. "Come on," he joked. "Let's drink before death comes for us too."

Ccrow smiled and sheathed her dagger. "Let's go pick a fight while we're at it. I need the blood of a beggar and the heart of a lizard for my next spell."

Damian faltered.

"I'm kidding." She winked.

There were shouts from outside their inn room. A voice yelled from below; "Men to arms! Everyone hide! The centaurs are in Shaemoor!"


End file.
